Michael had only driven a few hundred miles, but the climate and pace of this city was a world apart from where his journey had begun. Though he felt out of place, the car he drove was not. Bentley, Ferrari, Mercedes-Maybach…few knew that the streets of his home town were also paved with prestige vehicles. Whether parked up in Frizinghall Square or cruising through Mayfair’s New Bond St, the cars on the roads were the same. The social demographic that sat behind the wheel, however, was not.

In his city, cars were the favoured symbol of how far you had travelled in life – the milometer clocked resilience. They spoke of high achievement, a PhD from the School of Hard Knocks. Like the diamond in an engagement ring, an elite car signified the spending of care, attention and copious amounts of money. It showed one’s rank in society: a white Audi for foot soldiers, a black Bentley for the kingpin, a Rolls for his family.

Michael knew the cash that was flashed to purchase these beautiful machines came fast and easy to the boys moving up the ladder of the Khan’s organisation to become men of means.

As he drove through London in the Rolls-Royce Phantom, he felt the city’s magnificent stucco buildings embrace it, recognising it as one of their own. But the broad, sprawling Yorkshire stone edifices to which it actually belonged stood squarely detached from everything around them, whereas the slim homes of Mayfair gentry stood shoulder to shoulder, stretching upwards, and downwards. No room for anyone or anything new. Michael wondered if cars, like people, looked down on each other, Skodas and Peugeots put in their place as they tried to climb the social ladder. ‘But then…new money is better than no money,’ he said to himself as he turned the corner into White Horse Street. He’d reached his destination. He parked up and made his way to the address he’d been given.

He waited uncomfortably at the concierge desk of 100 Piccadilly, looking down at his shoes. He quietly raised his right foot and rubbed it behind his left trouser leg in an attempt to shine away the signs he didn’t belong here.

‘Ms Khan left this for you, sir,’ the concierge said, handing him a note and a parking stub.

‘What is this place?’ he asked the concierge, showing her the note.

‘It’s a warehouse, sir. Not far from here.’

He thanked the woman and climbed back into the car. He was entering the new postcode in the satellite navigation system, when the phone rang. It was Akbar Khan.